The Curious Case of the Three Musketeers
by holistic details
Summary: Helena has come back to the Warehouse, but of course misadventures occur and of course they keep Myka from fully enjoying Helena's return. If it isn't Pete pointing out some uncomfortable truths, it's an artifact whammying the heck out of Myka. Set after 4x08, AU.
1. Chapter 1

_Set after 4x08. AU from then on._

_Edit: It turns out I accidentally forgot a part near the end when I uploaded this, sorry! It has been fixed now; please let me know what you think._

* * *

Weak sunlight filters in through closed curtains, brightening the room just enough to make out the features of the people sprawled across the bed. Which is to say, just enough to make out the features of one of their faces, because the other one, with the head of unruly curls, has her face buried in the crook of the other woman's neck.

They're dozing, all of them, enjoying hovering on the edge of consciousness. One of them shifts and squeaks before resettling. The movements startle the other woman, who mumbles in a voice thick with sleep:

"Tell me you do not really allow Pete in your bed."

Myka springs straight up at that, previous drowsiness dissipating. "Shoo!" she hisses at Helena's thigh. "Shoo! How'd you get out of your cage?"

Affronted, Pete the ferret squirms out underneath the sheet and scampers off the bed. He disappears through a flap in the door and Myka curses the day she bought into human Pete's "ferret-door" idea. ("It'll be like a doggy-door! But for little No-name! It'll be great, Mykes!") She really should have known better. Every time Pete speaks in consecutive exclamatory sentences, she is left with a mess to clean.

Myka sighs, already shivering at the thought of chasing her stupid rodent in the cold of the South Dakota morning. She's stopped from getting out of bed by an arm snaking around her waist, followed by a warm torso pressing against her back.

Myka shivers for an entirely different reason.

"Don't go just yet," Helena murmurs, mouth warm against her shoulder, voice husky and low. "You've not properly wished me a good morning."

There's a horrible second in which Myka is sure she'll choke on her own spit and die, thereby horribly embarrassing herself in front of Helena.

"Morning," she manages. It isn't quite a croak, but it's definitely on its way to becoming one, but frankly, Myka's pleased she remembers what English is. Helena grins and falls back to bed, stretching languidly. Her nightshirt rides up and Myka has to look away to regain composure.

"It's far too early to be up and about, darling." Helena says. "Come get some rest."

"Well, maybe twenty-first century women don't need as much beauty sleep as you," she mumbles.

Helena makes an amused noise and swats her with a pillow. Myka stares back in disbelief before lunging for a pillow. In a calculated move befitting the wisdom of her years and her Secret Service training, she bonks Helena right over the head. All thoughts of wayward pets disappear as Helena gasps in mock outrage and the two unashamedly regress into giggling schoolgirls.

* * *

Artie grumbles at her sudden good mood. Claudia and Pete are delighted by the nervous energy it entails. Steve is bemused and both Leena and Helena smirk at it, although the expression on the latter woman's face makes Myka want to pull her into a deserted corner of the Warehouse and lick it off her face.

Wipe it. Wipe it off her face. Well, hands are just as versatile as – no, she probably shouldn't go there right now.

Myka glances guiltily at Marvin Wernick's mood ring, currently glowing a deep red. It's probably for the best she doesn't know to what emotion that colour corresponds. She checks where Pete is – all the way at the other end of the aisle, squinting thoughtfully at Stephen King's pen, Trailer sitting faithfully by his heel – just in case. It's likely that he has memorized the entire mood-to-colour chart, just to embarrass her at inopportune moments.

She double takes. "Pete! Don't let Trailer anywhere near that pen! We do _not_ need a Cujo running around."

To his credit, Pete catches himself before he can fall over in shock. "You know Cujo? How do you know Cujo!" He points an accusing finger at her. "You quoted _Spider-Man_ without realizing it once." His eyebrows have almost disappeared into his hairline.

Myka blinks, genuinely perplexed. "When did I do that?"

Pete's eye twitches. He works his mouth and both Myka and Trailer lean forward expectantly, but he doesn't quite manage words.

Shrugging, Myka turns back to her inventory. They work in silence for a few minutes until Pete starts glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. Myka's inclined to ignore it because Helena said she'd drop by and visit her sometime before lunch - "Perhaps break up the monotony of endless inventory, darling" - and she'd like to take this time to replay every single second she and Helena shared since her return to the Warehouse last night.

"Hey, Mykes?"

Of course, ignoring Pete isn't an option when he sidles up so close it's possible to smell the meat lover's pizza he had as a brunch snack.

"Myka!"

"I'm _listening_, Pete." She's not, really. She's thinking about Helena's newfound proclivity to hugs – surprising not only because of her English heritage, but because she's _Helena_ and the woman simply didn't do hugs. But a lot of things have changed and not all of it is bad, especially if it involves Helena's touch. She smiles dreamily, remembering the way she'd wrapped her arms around Myka after her ferret had scampered out into the hall, then later, the feel of Helena pressed up against her, hair still damp from her shower. Myka doesn't even know what she said to deserve it – the last thing she remembers is grumbling about Helena using up all the hot water.

"...but I mean if you two have talked the thing out, that's...well, that's great."

She snaps back to the present. "Talked what thing out?"

Pete looks surprised. "Uh, the disappearing for weeks and weeks without a phone call? That thing?"

"Oh, right. That." Myka shrugs helplessly. "Well, I mean, no. But Pete, I'm just glad to have her back."

"Oh." He waggles his eyebrows suggestively. "Just enjoying her, huh?"

Heat floods Myka's face. "Pete!" She can hear the squeak in her voice and hates herself for it. "It's not...we haven't...this is _so_ none of your business!"

"Aha! _You_ are lying!" Pete is almost dancing. "How do I know this, you may ask?" Myka opens her mouth to say she'd never ask, but he talks over her. "She spent all night in your room!" He looks around like he'd like a cigar to puff on.

"Well, where else would she sleep?" Myka cries in exasperation. "Her room is still here!"

This stumps him. "Well. I guess she wouldn't have wanted to tell you anyway," he mutters sulkily.

"What does that mean?" Myka demands.

"Nothing!" He looks at her, wide-eyed. "I just...y'know. It's cool that you don't need to beat the horse to death."

"The horse representing what, exactly in this metaphor?

Myka has never enjoyed it when people look at her as though she has a screw loose. She's gotten used to it since she started to work for the Warehouse, but that look coming from the man who is her partner in this madness is disconcerting, to say the least.

"How important it is to not keep secrets between," he makes an elaborate motion with his hands. He probably thinks he's said all he needs to, Myka thinks with exasperation. "Y'know. 'specially when – oh hey, H.G.!"

Myka spins around to see Helena saunter into their aisle, a familiar half-grin stretching her lips. She stops just shy of Myka, perpetually scorning the concept of personal space, and they share a smile. Myka misses the feel of Helena's eyes on her when she turns to greet Pete, and promptly feels stupid for it.

"Say, Pete. I understand Leena has cooked up –" Helena's cut off by a coughing fit from the dust Pete kicks up as he races out of the aisle. Myka rubs her back absentmindedly. Waving away the last of the dust, Helena chuckles. She moves even closer to Myka, so that their bodies brush with every breath they take. She's looking at Myka with a positively salacious smirk and it's a little too much for Myka's suddenly fragile state.

"Did Leena really make food?" Myka blurts. It's a stupid question, but if she didn't say it something else would have come out, something no doubt mortifying.

"I'm sure she has something ready in case of a Pete emergency." Helena pouts at Myka's raised eyebrow. "You're not cross, are you darling? I only wanted to talk in private."

She can't even pretend to be angry in the face of that. She suspects Helena knows it too, the way she preens under Myka's eye roll.

"Marvellous. Now, I have been wondering something." There's a pause wherein Helena scrutinizes Myka's expression.

"Go on," Myka says.

"Ah, yes. I've been wondering, might I have your permission to..." She wraps a hand around the lapel on Myka's jacket and tugs. "Try this?"

"Try wha –?" She's cut off by the shock of Helena's mouth against hers.

After a surprised second in which Myka's arms do a sort of controlled flail at her sides, she gathers up enough brain cells to respond.

Helena's hardly exerting any pressure at all on her lips – constant touches, featherlight – and it's already almost more than Myka can handle. She's getting dizzy at the thought of Helena's tongue in her mouth. She's worried she might die if it happens.

Helena pulls back before Myka gets a chance to test her theory, looking uncharacteristically shy. Myka's heart does a little skip in her chest. Something of what she's feeling must show on her face, because Helena laughs a little and steps forward again, resting her forehead against Myka's.

It's a perfect moment, even if Myka can't quite figure out what brought it on in the first place.

_Disappearing for weeks and weeks without a phone call. _

How typical. Pete's not even here, but he's still annoying Myka.

_I guess she wouldn't have wanted to tell you anyway._

Myka grits her teeth against the nagging in her head. Helena shifts closer as her body tenses, nuzzling into her neck. "All right?" she murmurs.

_I guess she wouldn't have wanted to tell you anyway._ _I guess she wouldn't have wanted to tell you anyway. I guess she wouldn't have – _

"Helena, where were you?"

The woman in question pulls back, smiling quizzically. Her hands stay on Myka's arms, rubbing little circles into her jacket with her thumbs.

"When you left, after we defused Sykes's bomb. We all went back to Leena's but you left. Where'd you go?" She feels awkward just asking. It's something that is probably better left untouched, that she was happy leaving untouched because she's scared. She's scared that she's going to push too hard and Helena will have to go away again.

Pete better appreciate this.

The circles stop. "Darling, what's bringing this on?"

Myka frowns. "Well, I was just curious. I mean," she laughs a little, hopes the nervousness isn't too noticeable. "You disappeared for _weeks_, Helena."

"I did," Helena says, her expression carefully neutral. "The Regents had some errands, and elected me to do them."

That's a rather bland explanation. Helena makes a face and Myka can't shake the feeling she's being lied to.

"Well," Helena smiles brightly, breaking the stretching silence. She pats Myka's shoulders awkwardly. "Inventory never ceases to call, you know as well as I do." Myka watches her leave, slightly stunned.

* * *

It's much later when Myka finishes inventory for the day. She's tired as she heads out of the aisles, but her mind hasn't stopped working since Helena left earlier with that ridiculous excuse. It feels like the whole world knows what is going on except her. Needless to say, she's not pleased.

As she gets closer to Artie's office, she begins to hear muffled shouts and – is that Helena's voice?

Her stomach churns – all the oddness in the air has her on edge, and now this? She quickens her step, until she's almost sprinting into Artie's office.

"What's wrong?" She asks breathlessly, looking around for an intruder, a flashing light on the security system, anything out of place.

Helena and Artie stare back at her, looking like they've been caught with their hands in the cookie jar. They'd obviously been fighting; Helena's back is stiff and her jaw tight, the way she always looks when she's unhappy. Artie seems like he was playing the role of the defendant, placating but insistent. Myka's eyes narrow as she tries to figure this out. Helena is upset. At Artie?But why?

"Artie, what were you two fighting about? I could hear it all the way - "

"Oh, nothing, nothing, don't worry about it." Artie waves his hand and bustles to the other end of the office. Myka trails after him, biting her lip in concern.

"But, Artie it seemed kind of serious. Are you sure you don't want to – "

He's rummaging through a drawer in the file cabinet and doesn't appear to be listening. "Oh, Myka, perfect. Here, I need you to go over this file, summarize and submit it to the Regents by the end of the week. I'd get Claudia to do it but she's gone back to Leena's, something about Mario's princess whatever that means, and I – aha! Thought you could hide from me, did you?" He glares at the file as he pulls it out. The file looks properly chastised. "So you're my only option. Shouldn't take too long, here you go."

How is she supposed to help if she doesn't know what's going on? she wants to scream. Instead Myka runs a hand through her hair, tamping down on the frustration. "I, uh, all right. I'll get Helena to help me." Which also conveniently affords her time in private to interrogate her about her fight with Artie. She suspects that if she had vibes like Pete, she'd be doubled over with one right now. As it is, all she has are furtive looks, evasive colleagues and a sinking feeling that something isn't adding up. The sooner she finds what it is, the better.

"Helena?" Artie asks, blinking at her.

"Yes, you know, H.G. Wells?" She glances up from the file to roll her eyes with Helena but she's not in the office. Myka gawps, then turns a full 180 degrees.

Nothing. No sign of her.

"Where – ?" Myka starts.

"Hm." Artie adjusts his glasses. "Mrs Frederic did say she wanted H.G. for some assignments. Maybe they just left."

Just left? Just _left?_ She couldn't just _leave_! Who would just _leave_?

"Yes, but we would've heard them leave, Artie!" He looks skeptical. Myka pauses, remembering Mrs. Frederic's penchant for silent entrances and exits. "Uh. Well. Probably. We probably would have heard them leave."

He shrugs. "Just get that done, okay? You can deal with H.G. later, if you need to."

If Helena doesn't want to be found, Myka won't find her. The last few months have been proof enough of that. Frustration and confusion war for dominance within her and all she can think to do is write the report Artie gave to her. Myka sits, seething.

* * *

This probably isn't the best way to deal with frustration and confusion.

She presses Helena harder against the door and her hormones decide she doesn't care. Helena moans into her mouth and they decide she _really_ doesn't care. Myka rakes her hands over Helena's shirt, fingers stumbling and catching against the wool. Helena tightens a hand in Myka's hair, pulling her closer still.

Jackets are unceremoniously tugged off. Hands wander and mouths seek skin as yet unexplored, trailing hotly from jaw to earlobe and down smooth necks eagerly bared. One or both of them moans, Myka's not too sure. She's too busy trying to sate her hunger for Helena's skin. A leg slips in between Myka's and the moan that escapes is all hers_._

Helena smirks against her mouth and now Myka is the one pressed hard against the door. A good thing too, because her knees might have given out otherwise. It's as though the change in position has robbed her of the ability to move her hands, so she just clings tightly to Helena's hips. She's sure she's leaving bruises.

It's so, so good to have Helena back, real and warm against her, and God, it's like she never left, all she can feel is Helena's tongue twisting past Myka's teeth, playful and assertive.

But she did leave. She did, and she went away for weeks and weeks, leaving Myka to fret for days, and now she refuses to talk about it.

Myka pushes against Helena and tries to ignore the way the muscles of Helena's stomach twitch in response. The Victorian seems to misinterpret the action and she presses even closer, scratching at Myka's shoulders. Myka loses herself in the way the hardness of the door at her back contrasts with the yielding softness of the woman at her front, also Helena's tongue is doing this flicking thing she must have learned here because there is no way anyone born in the 1800s knows how to do..._this_.

"Stop," Myka mumbles, regaining equilibrium. "Stop, H.G., stop."

"Myka," Helena sighs, a gust of breath against her lips.

"No, we've been waiting for this for way too long – "

"So you propose to postpone it further?" Helena moves closer impatiently, only to be held back at arm's length.

Myka shakes her head. That's the last thing she wants. Helena softens, thumbing along Myka's jaw.

"Tell me where you were. Tell me why you didn't call, or leave a message or _something_." Helena pulls back almost instantly and Myka grits her teeth because it _so figures._ This evasion is ridiculous – Myka needs to be kept in the loop or else she loses her mind, and Helena _knows_ that. It is so reminiscent of last year, with the weighted words and thick air between them, Myka wants to break something.

"Please," Myka whispers, and Helena's eyes fall shut like the word was a physical blow. Myka studies her, fascinated despite herself. The blouse Helena's wearing is wrinkled, with a few more buttons unfastened – had she done that? Myka can't quite remember. Helena's pursing her lips, dark eyes looking up at her almost pleadingly. She's soft in this light; vulnerable, even. It makes Myka wish she could just let go of the compulsion to know every detail of Helena's extended leave. Helena looks like she might finally open up to Myka, so of course that's when the Farnsworth goes off.


	2. Chapter 2

_I made a mistake with the content of the previous chapter, but it's fixed now. (Basically: if you don't remember Helena and Myka making out twice, you should probably go back to the first chapter and scroll down. The scene in question is near the end.)_

* * *

"Mykes, watch out!"

Pete's shout almost comes too late, but Myka manages to duck the crazy man with the hat in time. It's close though, and Myka's joints ache in protest as she throws herself to the ground. It makes sense that Napoleon's hat found him, this man who barely comes up to her knees.

This is a slightly uncharitable thought, but all magnanimity flew out the window the second _le petit Napoleon_ (the man has a real name of course; Joesph Garcia) had swung at her with a sword seemingly conjured from nowhere. If Napoleon's hat turns out to come equipped with a handy dandy sword artifact, Myka thinks grumpily, she's petitioning for a raise.

They've been chasing this one for a while. They'd gotten a ping maybe two weeks ago and Artie immediately sent them out to San Jose, where rumours had spread like wildfire of a man who had never spoken French in his life developing a sudden francophilia and then later, that same man trying to gather an army for '_la gloire de la France_!'. (There was also something about a desire to conquer Europe.) Accustomed though Californians were to crazy, this was a level that made even them uncomfortable.

Which isn't to say Myka wasn't thrilled at the chance to escape the oppressive atmosphere at the Warehouse, between Helena's new secrets, her strange friendship with Artie and Leena's quiet support of it all – but there is a limit to her patience and this guy obliterated it like ten minutes ago.

Swords are difficult to dodge when you don't have a similar weapon in hand, she is finding out. Especially swords wielded by angry men with a height complex who have recently been dumped for other, richer men. What is especially frustrating is his lack of finesse. He slashes wildly at her and she actually wants to roll her eyes because she's embarrassed for him. To make things even better, he seems to think sword fighting ought to be done while standing_ thisclose_ to an opponent, which only means she can't Tesla him. Well, she could, but a shot at such close range would be near fatal. She has the ability to disarm him blindfolded with one hand tied behind her back but she doesn't have anything resembling fencing equipment, so she can't kick his ass into next week like she wants to. Myka hisses in pure annoyance as the man swings at her again.

She thinks she might be a little bit cranky.

Then, she catches a glint of silver and lunges for it. Her hand closes around the hilt of an épée and she's convinced this_ deus ex ensis _is an artifact but she's trying not to die by amateur sword swipe so she'll worry about that later. Also she's really cheesed off and wants to teach this guy a lesson.

She slices through the air with the épée, thrilling at the perfect balance. Napoleon's wannabe slashes wildly back at her but it's a weak strike now that he knows he's outclassed. Myka hasn't made such a pathetic move since she was a rookie and even then it was rare. She's always been very advanced for her age. And several other people's ages too.

A quick flick of her wrist and _le petit Napoleon_ is disarmed and wide-eyed with fear. Then Pete appears behind him and they all duck as the hat is plucked off and dropped unceremoniously into a neutralizing bag. Joesph Garcia faints, which is just as well. Myka turns to Pete – she wants another bag for the sword – but it's no longer in her hand, which might pose a few problems.

She wants to scream.

For a moment, she entertains the idea of not telling Pete about the case of the missing fencing equipment. That lasts about a second wherein two things happen simultaneously: her rule-abiding sensibilities kick back in and she discovers that the sword left her with a wound on her index finger, which is upsetting. (It's maybe about as deep as a paper cut, but the _principle_ of the thing is what matters here.) Also, if she gets mysteriously blown up because she handled this artifact, she doesn't want Pete to be left wondering why.

"Hey, Pete. You saw the sword in my hand, right?" Pete nods, a spatter of goo stuck in his hair. She brushes it away briskly – neutralizer solution is hell on Earth to wash out – "Well, it disappeared."

He blinks at her, head cocked to one side. "Disappeared?"

Irritation that had flickered and died with Garcia's collapse sparks back up. She feels her left eye twitch with the effort it takes to refrain from punching Pete's head in.

"_Yes_," she hisses.

Pete throws his hands up in the universal 'don't shoot' gesture and takes a slow step back. "All right, all right," he says, looking a bit more nervous than usual when presented with Myka's ire. Myka catalogues his behaviour idly, but makes no move to soften her stance."I'm gonna go put Napoleon's hat in the trunk and you call Artie, let him know about the sword thing." Pete walks off backward, pointing at the Farnsworth already in Myka's hand.

She explains to Artie as best she can, and as she guessed, there's nothing he can do. Disregarding this, he insists they stay put until they find it. This isn't too unusual – recently, the thought of leaving any artifact, harmless or not, has caused him to break out in hives. A resigned sigh later, Myka's on the phone with the nearest hotel, booking two rooms. She doesn't need Pete's vibes to know this is going to be a wild goose chase, unless they get stupendously lucky.

* * *

Well, they don't get stupendously lucky, but they do get H.G. Wells, which is stupendously...something.

The world in general is seriously off-kilter if Pete looks happier to see Helena than Myka, and now Pete is grimacing like he knows it. He's trying hard to ignore it though, so he's extra jolly. (Read: unbearably obnoxious and she hasn't wanted to punch him so many times in one day since they first met. Or that time when he got her turned into a zombie. Or that time when that hypnotherapist's artifact was affecting her, making her act upon her subconscious desires and she ended up punching any guy that touched her. That was a weird one. Something about this gives her pause, but the idea in her head isn't tangible yet, swirling just out of reach.) He leads the way to their hotel, making a big deal of taking deep, full breaths of the morning air. (In this part of California, people take great pride in their gardens, and the air is lightly scented with flowers.)

A few stilted greetings later, they're all heading up to their rooms, with the exception of Helena, who wants to visit the scene of the artifact. Alone. For a better chance at stealth, she claims. Since Myka can't very well say "No, stay with me, I'm upset and I want to know why you're keeping secrets from me so let Pete do it." or "My mouth misses your mouth maybe we can kiss again and never stop." so she shrugs her acquiescence.

She notices Pete notice her jaw clenching at Helena's retreating back. They don't speak about it. There's nothing to say.

* * *

So. Myka was right. This is undoubtedly a wild goose chase and a bad idea to boot.

She stares at the rocking chair inexplicably placed in the middle of her room and tries to find the will to move it to a corner or some other place she won't trip over it.

Failing in that, she sits on it and glares at the wall. Anger vibrates under her skin, has been doing so all day. It slithers into her bloodstream and curls up in her limbs, waiting. Watching. It needs to go somewhere but Myka doesn't know where, doesn't know how to get rid of it.

There's a knock at the door and she nearly leaps out of the chair. Heedless of Myka's near heart attack, Helena strolls in, hands in her pockets. Unfortunately, the casual air doesn't quite jive with the fact that her hair is in the greatest state of disarray Myka's ever seen it in (but, she notices with irritation, it still manages to fall _just_ _so_. A normal human being might spend eight hours to achieve the same effect.). There's a gaping hole in the sleeve of her jacket, revealing the light blue of her blouse. Her boots are covered with mud and what is possibly paint. Her slacks are intact, but smeared with dirt. Myka stares open-mouthed.

Helena seems intent on something, goes to the fridge and scans the shelves. Her eyes alight on what she is looking for and quicker than Myka can imagine, she drains one of the cream sodas Pete had sneaked in earlier. With a sigh of relief, she sets the can down and turns to look at Myka.

"Hello, darling. Why do you have your Tesla in hand?"

Myka looks down in surprise; she doesn't remember how that got there. But she's really not in the mood to admit that, to Helena of all people. She's still angry with Helena's reluctance to say anything about what happened before the night she came back home_._ Just because Artie and Leena seem to condone it doesn't mean she's _right_ to keep it from her friends, Regents be damned. It's a ridiculous double standard and Myka doesn't care for it at all.

"It's a secret," she replies. It comes out more sour than Myka intended and Helena's face falls. She regains composure quickly but Myka feels a stab of vindictive triumph just the same. She doesn't know why, all it proves is they both hate having people hide things from them. She could have sworn she was more mature than this.

"Well, regardless," Helena says, smile too wide to be genuine. "I believe I have located the artifact that pricked you."

"Speaking of pricks," Myka mutters, glaring at her.

"I – what?" Helena stares at her in pure bafflement, and the irritation that has been plaguing Myka all day rears its head once again.

"Nothing," she hisses through gritted teeth. "Abso-fucking-lutely nothing."

Helena's flat out staring at her by this point, shock and concern in her eyes. "Myka, what is the matter?" she asks gently. "You haven't been yourself of late."

Myka explodes. There's no graceful way to describe it, mainly because there's not an iota of grace left in the wake of her pent-up rage. It's lucky she had already put away the Tesla because she's not sure she would be able to resist the urge to throw it at the woman standing in front of her. As it is, she's bombarding her with anything within arm's reach: a set of keys, a stack of papers, a phone (a part of her currently in hiding winces as it hits the wall), and a pebble Pete had picked up in admiration "shut up, this could be worth like a fortune on e-bay. Look at how shiny it is!" all the while yelling and cursing and she's not even sure if she's making sense – she can't hear past the rage pounding through every crevice of her body.

"I beg your pardon!" Helena exclaims, catching the Farnsworth as it flies towards her.

Myka finds coherency at last. "You don't beg anyone's pardon, that's the problem! And it could get you killed! You know what, I think it almost did," Myka gestures angrily at what remains of Helena's clothing. "And secrets! Let's talk about how many _secrets_ you keep!"

Helena cuts in before Myka can continue, her voice desperate. "I don't _want_ to keep secrets from you! But I must, why can't you understand?"

"You must?" Myka repeats, incredulous. There's no way she's actually hearing this. "You _must_?"

"Yes!" Helena implores. "Do you truly believe I would keep anything from you if I could avoid it? Myka, I've learned my lesson from the last time. Please, believe me."

The pleading in Helena's eyes can't touch her, she's ensconced in a thundercloud of fury, unlike anything she's ever felt before. She can't control it. She's not sure if she wants to – the frustration has been dying to get out for so long.

The door flies open and Pete bursts in. "Artie found it," he crows. "He found out what the artifact is." He kicks the door shut, oblivious to or choosing to ignore the expressions on the women's faces. "Well, I mean obviously Claudia and Steve helped, _obviously._But! Artie just Farnsworthed me and now we know what it is!"

Myka hates being interrupted on the best of days. Today, she's discovering, is not the best of days.

Appropriately, Pete falters under the heat of Myka's glare. "Y'know, the," he gestures in Myka's general direction. "Angry!Myka thing you've been rocking all day totally makes sense now."

He noticed that, did he? She supposes she shouldn't be surprised.

"It does?" The relief in Helena's eyes is frankly insulting. Myka is not being unreasonable. Myka kicks the glare up a notch. Had it been physiologically possible, she would have arranged for smoke to be coming out of her ears.

Pete and Helena seem oblivious. "Yeah. That sword she pricked herself with was Porthos's."

"Porthos?" Helena muses. Realization dawns. "Of course! Porthos, of the three musketeers! He was in possession of quite the temper, if I recall correctly. He was constantly getting into duels, and his pride was – "

"Hugemongus," Pete finishes.

Helena blinks. "I – I suppose, yes."

"Still kinda shocked the three musketeers were _real_," Pete murmurs thoughtfully. "And now my partner's turning into one of 'em."

Myka's eye twitches. Are they really having a conversation about her right in front of her? She hasn't read the book in question since she was sixteen, so she's a little blurry on details, but if Porthos's musketeer friends did that to him, she can understand why he was so angry all the time.

"Well, this bonding time is lovely and all – " Myka begins acerbically.

Pete cuts her off, looking worried. "But if Porthos was part of the _three_ musketeers, there are two other swords that are probably out there, and probably d'Artagnan's too. We can't find all of those swords, we have no leads!"

"Pete, I must say, I am impressed you read – "

Myka and Pete reply at the same time, both with some variation of "he watched the movie".

Pete turns to Myka, smiling carefully. "Maybe you should take a walk, Mykes. Clear your head."

How rude. "My head does not need to be cleared, it needs – oh my God." She spares a brief second to notice the confused looks Helena and Pete exchange. She forgets about it as soon as her gaze falls on her reflection again. "Have I looked like this all day?" she shrieks, patting frantically at her head. "This is a mess!"

Pete blinks at Helena.

"Porthos was very vain, as well."

"I figured, yeah."

There's an awkward pause where neither Helena nor Pete can bring themselves to look away from the spectacle of Myka standing in front of a full-length mirror, furiously brushing her hair while simultaneously checking out the back of her head in a hand mirror.

"Well." Helena claps her hands. "I think we ought to go and look for the sword. I do have a lead, shouldn't take me too long to find the place again."

"Uh, no. Leaving Myka alone is a big, fat Bad Idea. Capital 'b', capital 'i'." Pete shakes his head. "It was really easy to piss off Porthos. That means Myka could go all cuckoo on anyone for anything! The doorman, the receptionist, the crying baby in the lobby – anyone!"

"We'll lock the door," Helena says. "She won't get out."

"She's _Myka_."

Silence as Helena considers this, pursing her lips like she should have known better. The last thing she wants is Myka to become more agitated, so: "Pete, you stay here while I go look for the sword," she proposes. "Perhaps I'll get lucky. If I don't, we can switch tomorrow. Meanwhile you can keep an eye on her." she nods toward Myka, now searching frantically in her bag, bemoaning the lack of hair supplies.

"Why do I have to be the one to guard her when she's in the worst bad mood ever!" Pete yelps.

"You're more accustomed to it than I am," Helena throws over her shoulder, walking to the door.

"Oh, ha. Ha. Nice. Yeah." Tactfully, he doesn't call attention to Myka's earlier tirade against Helena. She smiles slightly at the pout he has on display and disappears through the doorway.

* * *

The Three Musketeers _was a novel about the adventures of a Frenchman named d'Artagnan and his adventures with Porthos, Athos and Aramis, musketeers in the French army. You might recognize their motto: "all for one, and one for all"._


	3. Chapter 3

_Meant to have this up yesterday, but was delayed by my own disorganization. Also this was edited at like midnight, please forgive any errors._

* * *

It's been fifteen hours. It's been fifteen hours and Helena hasn't returned. She left at nine and now it's midnight. She had Farnsworthed, around two in the afternoon, saying she'd be back by now. Despite himself, Pete's a little worried.

He lobs a Kleenex-basketball. The shredded remains flutter to the ground but completely miss the trash can.

Okay, so maybe he's a lot worried.

Myka's fast asleep, has been almost since he, in a stroke of genius (if he does say so himself) pointed out the necessity of beauty sleep. He's worried about her, too. Seems like lately all he does is worry. Worry about artifacts, worry about his friends, worry about the gnawing feeling in his gut that comes and goes without explanation.

Freaking out isn't going to change anything, he tells himself. He looks at the Farnsworth, willing Artie to ring, willing H.G. to find the sword that whammied his partner. Either will do, he's not picky. He'd feel better if he was the one out in the field, doing something useful. This sitting around on a rocking chair just isn't good for his health. As a matter of fact, he kind of resents H.G. for calling dibs on the sword hunting. He resents her more as the hours pass and he gets increasingly restless, especially when it appears that locking Myka in the room might actually have prevented her from leaving. Myka seems fully capable of spending the day in front of the mirror. He should have listened to Helena, should have gone with her.

Answering his prayers, the Farnsworth buzzes obnoxiously. He nearly trips over his feet in his rush to answer it. The movie never showed what happened if Porthos was awakened abruptly, and Pete has no desire to find out.

"Hi," he stage-whispers, face too close to the screen in the way at which Myka always rolls her eyes in exasperation. "Boy, am I glad you called. I'm bored outta my skull!"

"Why are we whispering?" Artie asks, gruff as usual.

"Because Myka-who-is-becoming-a-musketeer is asleep," he holds a finger to his lips.

Artie rolls his eyes, and asks if H.G. has found anything yet.

Pete replies in the negative, and talk turns to what will happen once H.G. finds the sword. (And Pete steadfastly refuses to consider the possibility that neither he nor H.G. will be able to find it. It's just not an option.) Helena, in keeping with her tradition of dramatic entrances, chooses that moment to stumble into the room.

She, and the sword she's carrying, are greeted by cries of general relief quickly silenced by Helena herself when she spies Myka's slumbering form.

"How'd you get that?" Pete asks, hurrying over to her. Her jacket is gone entirely now, small cuts dotting her body, accompanied by a few darkening bruises, but he doesn't ask. Things haven't gotten to a place where they feel comfortable discussing wounds, physical or otherwise. She swats him away and looks pointedly at his hands. He sighs, puts on the gloves and waits eagerly.

With a roll of her eyes, Helena lets Pete take the sword in return for the Farnsworth. She pretends she doesn't see him wave it around. Helena also ignores the hushed cry of _This is Sparta!_ She probably doesn't want to know.

"What have you found that might help us?" Helena wants to know.

"Well, we've been researching it but the last sighting of any of the four swords was in 1979, and they didn't like computers back then." The expression on Claudia's face suggests this was a great fault in their thinking. "So we've had to read reports made by previous agents, and can I just add, they had _terrible _handwriting."

"Have you seen yours?" Artie snipes. Leena tries to hold in a laugh, and receives a glare for her trouble.

"And?" Helena can't feel guilty for the impatience in her voice. She'd _just_ gotten home to the Warehouse, sh e will not put up with some piece of metal trying to take Myka away from her now. (She's certain they can sort out whatever had been bothering Myka before the artifact influenced her. She has a sinking suspicion she knows what it is, but one thing at a time.) Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Myka raise her head and look around sleepily. It appears the raised voices had awoken her after all.

"Well, finding it was a great first step," Leena says, dragging Helena's attention back.

"Yeah, one down, three to go," Pete grouses.

"Actually," Leena interjects. "You should only need to the one, and the effects will probably go away."

"She's right," Claudia nods, words muffled through the chips she's eating. "For all the talk of the _three _musketeers_, _they pretty much did their own thing most of the time."

"Can you be sure?" Myka asks distractedly. She's more focused on the clothes in her overnight bag than the agents discussing her but Pete sees Helena suppress a smile. He knows how she feels – whammied by an artifact, and somehow Myka is still Myka.

"Only one way to find out," Artie says. "Let us know how things go." He cuts the connection.

"Well, this is it." Pete looks the same way Helena feels, anxious anticipation written into the lines of his body. He takes the sword and, with a deep breath, plunges it into the neutralizer canister.

They duck as sparks fly, and Helena's spirits rise. It's about time Myka returned to normal. She'll of course still be angry with Helena, but at least she'll be able to articulate the reasons why instead of throwing an assortment of nearby objects. Helena will take improvement where she can get it.

"Myka?" Helena ventures. "How are you feeling, darling?"

Myka doesn't look away from the small mirror in her hand and Helena's stomach rolls.

It didn't work.

But it _was_ an artifact, the sparks caused by contact with the neutralizer are proof enough of that. Yet Myka is still unable to tear her eyes away from the mirror, still caught in the artifact's spell. Helena clenches her jaw against the wave of disappointment – there's no time for it.

"Call Artie," she orders. "Find out why that didn't work."

Pete is already on the Farnsworth, his face determined but worried. Behind him, Myka is mesmerized by her reflection.

"Is there anything we could have missed?" Helena asks, almost before their faces appear on the Farnsworth. "Anything that might explain why neutralizing the sword didn't work?"

"It didn't wo – " Claudia stops herself. "Of course not. That'd be way too easy. We should drag this out for a week or two more, why not."

Trailer whines somewhere in the background. "So no sparks?" Leena asks.

"No, there were sparks, that's kind of the rub." Pete scratches his head.

There's a startled pause as the team back at the Warehouse consider this.

"Are you sure it was the right sword?" Steve asks. Helena looks up in surprise; she doesn't see him in the office. A second later, he strolls by on screen, waving.

"What do you mean?" Pete asks.

"Oh. Of course. Of _course_, how did I not see?" Helena paces as she thinks aloud. "While you were correct, Claudia, in that the three musketeers mostly 'did their own thing', they were always in the same general area: nearby inns or apartments in the French countryside. It makes perfect sense that Aramis and Athos's swords would be in the vicinity of Porthos's."

"Yikes, those names are a mouthful," Pete mumbles. He turns to Helena with a curious expression on his face and she knows what he's going to say before he says it. "Hey, H.G., how did you get this sword in the first place?"

"I fought a man. With a sword of my own."

"A man. With a sword. Of your own?"

"His name was Johnathan Kanold, I believe," she replies, almost cheery.

"...and how do you know this?"

Helena gives him a look. "His name was Jonathan Kanold," she repeats firmly.

"Right," Pete shakes his head warily. "Right."

Artie watches their exchange with eyebrows high on his forehead, but blessedly refrains from comment. "Claudia, run a background check on Jonathan Kanold. Steve, check for any available information on how the other three swords affect people. Leena, Tray, come with me. We're going to check if we still have Athos and D'Artagnan's swords in the Warehouse."

"We'll stay on the line until you – " Pete's cut off by Artie slamming the cover on his Farnsworth. "Good idea Artie you let us know when you actually have concrete information very smart." He rolls his eyes, throwing himself down on the bed.

Meanwhile, Helena doesn't know where to look. Not at Pete, with whom she's still not entirely comfortable. Not at Myka, who's slowly getting out of bed – she can't bear the reminder of her failure. So she develops an intense interest in the tacky, too-bright jumble of colours masquerading as a painting on the wall. She sees her reflection in the frame and wishes she couldn't.

"_C'est tellement laide_," Myka mutters at her side. Helena sucks in a sharp breath – she hadn't heard Myka approach.

"The painting? Indeed." She attempts a smile, but even that vanishes when she realizes Myka had spoken in French. It's no reason to panic, she tries to tell herself. Myka is fluent in many languages, French foremost among them. This isn't the artifact. This is Myka showing off her intellect. For no discernible reason.

"I _will_ get you back," Helena promises Myka, apropos of nothing. She herself didn't know she was going to say it until her lips were forming the words. Pete pretends to be absorbed in the pamphlet on the nearby shopping centres and Helena is grateful.

Myka looks up from adjusting her shirt. "Okay," she agrees easily. She turns away to smooth down her hair.

"Okay," Helena echoes, smiling stupidly at her back.

As if on cue, the Farnsworth buzzes. Helena watches Pete frantically search his pockets for it until she takes pity on the man and points discreetly at the bed. With a grimace, he picks up the Farnsworth from its hiding place in the jumble of sheets and flips the lid.

Steve appears, rifling through pages of notes. He gets straight down to business. "Okay, so Athos was a calm, even-tempered kinda guy. Married to the antagonist of the novel, but other than that really nice. D'Artagnan was the protagonist, very brave, very easily provoked. Now, Aramis," he holds a finger up in the air. Helena suppresses the urge to roll her eye in a manner unbecoming of her – she gets the feeling he's leaving the most pertinent information for last. "Aramis was a religious scholar. He would often say he wanted to be a priest – even his servant was super religious – but he never managed to quit the musketeers."

"We know all this," Helena snipes.

"Patience," Claudia chides. "Check out what I dug up on Jonathan Kanold. He was a choir boy, from age eight to eighteen. And his father was a priest, held sermons every Sunday at the local church."

"And that's why it was Aramis's sword that came to Kanold!" Helena enjoys it when pieces of information start forming a whole picture.

Pete still looks confused. "But why did Porthos's sword appear to Myka in the first place? I mean, don't get me wrong, Mykes punches me like, a _lot_, but she's not an angry person. Not really."

Helena's eyes close against the memory of Myka's lips on hers, followed by the confusion, the heart-wrenching confusion, when Helena wouldn't give her the answers she begged for. Not really an angry person, true, but recent events...

Yet how can Helena explain to the most rule-abiding of them all Artie's use of the Astrolabe? She herself doesn't know quite what had prompted such a drastic response but the circumstances must have been dire indeed. Myka couldn't possibly understand how sometimes an artifact was the last course of action left to take. She doesn't _want_ Myka to understand; it would mean Myka had gone through excruciating pain, pain she was wholly undeserving of.

Steve notices her silence and calls her name. Helena smiles absently at the agent she never got to know, firmly silences the voice that creeps about in her skull, whispering of the metronome.

"I believe Myka has been on edge lately," Helena murmurs carefully.

"Yeah, but so have we all," Claudia says.

Her stomach lurches. This is the first time she's hearing of any discontentment within the Warehouse team. Was it possible that they could subconsciously feel the effects of the timeline reversal?

"Myka's always tightly under control," Steve muses. "So maybe the suppression of anger led to an artifact being attracted to her." Helena is surprised – either he and Myka have become good friends while she wasn't looking (while she wasn't _here_) or he's more observant than she's realized. She resolves to get to know the man better. (Then she remembers Christina's smile and Helena's traitorous mind supplies an image of the metronome and all the_ what-ifs _come rushing back to her.)

"Well. Okay, then." Claudia looks curiously at Steve. "But how do we get Porthos's sword back to Myka so we can neutralize it?"

"Leave it to me," Helena says confidently.

* * *

"This."

A flash of silver in the dim light.

"Isn't."

A shadow scampers backward.

"_Working!"_

Damn, but she hates being wrong.

"Just – just keep trying, 'kay?" Pete yells, safely out of the way.

Helena grits her teeth and lunges again at Myka. It's midnight, and she's in an alley, gallivanting about with a sword in hand, fighting her closest friend (her _unarmed_ closest friend) with a personal cheerleader who is cringing more than he is being useful. She can't stop imagining what her mother would say.

"Look, Porthos was all about protecting his pride," Claudia coaches, voice slightly distorted from the Farnsworth. "He was always getting into duels, and the dudes he fought against were always really ticked off."

"So you gotta make this convincing," Pete pipes up.

Helena makes an utterly undignified sound somewhere between a whine and a groan.

"Geez, you'd think I was telling her to kill Myka or something," Claudia mutters.

"She's not saying you have to actually hurt her, H.G.," Pete says at almost the same time. "Just make Myka think you _might_ so the sword'll show up again." There's a pause as he watches Myka expertly dodge Helena's strike. It seems Myka has learned a lot since she having to evade Garcia earlier in the day. "C'mon," he encourages. "I miss being able to use the bathroom! And the mirror. She's even hogging the little hand mirrors, man. I haven't gotten a look at this fine bod – " he gestures at himself. "_All day._"

Helena fervently wishes she couldn't hear him.

At least getting Myka to comply with the fight hadn't been too difficult. A slight hint that perhaps Myka wasn't competent enough to handle a sword fight without a sword and she had agreed almost instantly. Now all Helena needed to do was goad Myka into the right amount of anger and simultaneously convince her that Helena was out to hurt her and hopefully the sword would show up to help the kindred spirit it perceived in Myka. Pete was standing at the ready with a canister of neutralizer and then things would go back to normal until the next artifact.

A sense of forced calm washes over her. This is her duty, and she must do it. "I do hope you can forgive me," she murmurs, clutching tightly to her sword. She pretends to ignore the sudden stiffness in Pete and Myka's bodies.

She pushes aside memories of Egypt. _Feint_. She doesn't think about the betrayal in Myka's eyes. _Parry._ The world around her goes out of focus as she concentrates solely on keeping Myka off-guard. _Remise_. Then suddenly there's a _clang_ as Myka counters Helena's strike with her own, the sound of metal upon metal ringing clearly in the night.

Elation makes her steps light and she easily dodges Myka's next jab. It takes a few tries, but she does disarm Myka, sending her sword skittering along the pavement. Pete rushes to collect it, a dark outline amidst the shadows of the alley. Sparks sparks fly out of the canister as the sword is dunked inside.

Myka gasps sharply, freezing in place. She looks around, eyes wide and uncertain.

Helena grins, exhausted and relieved. "Welcome back, darling."

* * *

They've been back at the Warehouse for almost a week when Myka gets up the courage.

She finds Helena rummaging through the desk Artie has at Leena's. Helena has the grace to look somewhat ashamed when Myka announces her presence, so at least things between Artie and Helena haven't gotten _that_ friendly. It makes Myka feel a bit better, a bit more in control.

"I have to know," she explains softly, twisting her fingers together. Helena straightens slowly, like she has been expecting this.

"I will answer your questions," she agrees affably. Her expression is carefully neutral.

"Let's sit?" Helena courteously pulls out a chair, gestures for Myka to seat herself. "Thank you."

It's awkward, this new formality. Besides the hug she'd received after Porthos's sword had stopped affecting her, she and Helena haven't really occupied the same space. Artie had given them a new mission almost immediately after. (Myka didn't go (hadn't been allowed), but Helena did.) Despite the fact that it took Helena, Pete and Claudia maybe two days to find and neutralize the new artifact, neither really made an attempt to hold a proper conversation upon her return. Myka's been agonizing on what to say, what words to use to say it right.

"It's perfectly fine, you know." Helena breaks her out of her reverie, smiling. "Ask me."

"I have to know," she repeats. She can't stress the importance of this enough. She knows Helena won't want to tell her. But she wouldn't ask if it weren't important. Helena just smiles again, takes a seat across from her.

"How did you get the sword from Johnathan Kanold?"

Helena blinks at her for a few seconds until the question sinks in. "How did I get the sword from Johnathan Kanold?"

Myka nods tensely.

"This is what you wish to know?" Helena checks. Her mind is at work searching for any hidden meanings within the question.

The corner of Myka's lips twitch up. "Yup." She knows Helena has been expecting a question about her absence. She won't be getting one.

It's not that Myka isn't curious anymore, because she is. She's just thinking more clearly, now that she's had time to regroup after the shock of Helena's return and any lingering effects of the artifact. Myka knows Helena, she should have remembered pushing for answers would never get her any. So now she will be patient, wait for Helena to come to her.

But Myka is completely as to mystified how Aramis's sword was snagged in the first place. Pete doesn't seem to know (she thinks he didn't even _ask_). Artie's been over the moon excited to finally have the quadfecta of the Musketeer swords in the Warehouse, and Myka doesn't have the heart to spoil his good mood by making uncomfortable inquiries. And of course she couldn't ask Helena. Not until now, anyway.

"Well. It wasn't anything too exciting." Helena demures, sitting back in her chair. She looks more relaxed than Myka's seen her in a while. Myka grins, aware that she looks like a goofy idiot but Helena doesn't seem to mind.

"So does that mean I need to bribe the police into covering up whatever you did?" she teases. She reaches out and pokes Helena on the knee, just for the feeling of her there under her fingers.

Helena traps Myka's hand underneath her own. "Oh darling, it's as though you don't believe me!" Helena raises an eyebrow. The coy smirk she flashes makes Myka's heart leap in her chest, and she flips the hand underneath Helena's, tracing light circles onto her palm. She can't help the laugh that escapes her, delighting in the rapport they've so easily reestablished.

"Wow, it must have been bad," she murmurs.

Helena shakes her head. "Just doesn't trust me," she sighs theatrically, looking up at the ceiling as if for guidance.

"I trust you."

And just like that, the conversation turns serious. This wasn't her intention, but she doesn't know how to lighten the mood and not trivialize the verbalization of her earnest belief in Helena so she doesn't say anything.

Helena's lips curve upward invitingly. Myka tries not to notice.

"I know," she says simply. She squeezes her hand and Myka is a little bit in love with the feeling of Helena's cool fingers wrapping around her own.

"To answer your question," she begins. At Myka's raised eyebrow, Helena rolls her eyes. "To answer your question _honestly_." She corrects, and looks for approval. She finds it in the lightening of Myka's eyes. "I utilized the web search apparatus – "

"Google," Myka corrects automatically.

"Yes, of course. Utilizing..._Google_ made it easy to locate the nearest fencing studio. I then looked for a man, a quiet place and hoped for the best, quite frankly."

"Why would you need a fencing stu – oh my God you stole a sword from a fencing studio." Myka looks properly scandalized.

So she truly had been wondering how the sword arrived in their possession, Helena realizes sheepishly. No hidden meanings.

"And then you got a poor man off the street and duke it out with you but you had a sword and he didn't – _Helena._"

"To be fair," she protests immediately. "Kanold was by no means _poor_ and he had been, as a matter of fact, been drinking too much and picking on a few young men that night!"

"Theft of fencing equipment and fencing with an unarmed drunkard," Myka says dazedly. "Dear, sweet God."

Helena pouts. This doesn't seem to attract Myka's attention so she switches tactics.

"Used to fence you know," Myka is saying when Helena swoops in and presses her lips against Myka's open mouth.

Unlike before, this time there's no startled pause, no waiting around to get their bearings. Myka's arms wind about Helena's neck and tug her down roughly. Helena gasps into her mouth and slips onto Myka's lap as gracefully as she can while threading her fingers through curls and holding her in place with a hand cupping her cheek. Myka's not going anywhere of course, but it never hurts to ascertain these things.

* * *

The sun streams merrily through the curtains they forgot to draw. It shines behind Myka's shut eyelids and she squirms in place, checking for ferrets in the bed. She doesn't come into contact with any long furry rodents and feels safe enough to wrench her eyes open.

She slams them shut almost immediately upon completion of the action. The sunlight is brighter than she realized. She can't appreciate the warm golden glow it gives the room just yet. Maybe when she's more awake and can feel her arm.

...why can't she feel her arm?

Myka opens her eyes again (more carefully) and is rewarded with Helena staring back at her, amused.

_ She makes sleepy look good_, is Myka's first thought. Following it closely is _oh she's not wearing any clothes._

And neither is Myka.

Suddenly she remembers and she's lost in the sensation memory of slick heat, in her and all around her, encompassing every corner of her world and claiming possession of it – and her gleeful surrender.

Helena shifts, hums against her neck and Myka can feel the smile on her face. Myka laughs a little at the tickling sensation and Helena pulls away, only a little. Just far enough to look properly at her and smooth a few curls behind Myka's ear.

Myka leans down to press a kiss against sleep-warm lips. She closes her eyes, enjoying the petting Helena seems to think she needs.

Then Helena pulls back, cold air where her body was keeping Myka safe and warm. Myka whines at the loss. She should be embarrassed at the sound, but it gets Helena's fingers back in her hair, so she really can't bring herself to feel too bad about it. At least she's regaining feeling in her arm, she thinks grouchily.

"Magellan's astrolabe." Helena's voice isn't loud enough to be a whisper. It would more accurately be described as an exhalation of air.

"Bless you?" Myka's smile fades away at the serious look in Helena's dark eyes.

"When I was away from the Warehouse, after we destroyed Sykes's bomb. The Regents had me complete various exams and errands, yes. But I was also researching Magellan's astrolabe." Helena takes a deep breath, tries not to let the sudden stillness of Myka's body stop her confession. "I believe Artie used it."

Myka sits up, holding her breath.

"I don't know why, but you must understand," Helena follows her until she can look Myka in the eyes. "Artie would never use such a dangerous, unpredictable artifact unless – "

"Unless he thought it was serious enough." Myka's voice cuts through her like a chill.

"Yes," she says softly. She reaches for the shirt draped over a bedpost. Helena can't bear it, the look on Myka's face, and the fear in her eyes as she struggles to make sense of this, her imagination conjuring terrifying scenarios, each worse than the last.

After a small eternity, Helena's shaking fingers manage to button her shirt. Halfway through, she realized it is _Myka's_ blouse, but she can't stop now. She needs to get her clothes on and leave, let Myka have the time and space she'll need to process all this.

Helena feels thoroughly childish for missing her already.

She's almost done dressing, and is looking now for her left boot. It doesn't appear to be where she left it and she's about ready to give up and leave anyway when an arm winds around her waist, holding her in place. Helena freezes, and Myka's warmth presses into her back.

"Don't go just yet," she whispers, and the warm air against her ear makes her shiver. "You've not properly wished me a good morning."

Helena twists in Myka's arms. She studies Myka's face carefully, looking for the minuteness hint that Myka is not really okay.

She finds it. It's visible, right there in the lines on her forehead and the set to her jaw.

But she also finds something else, something that warms Myka's eyes, something that stretches a smile across her lips. A small one, to be sure, but genuine. Helena's heart swells at the sight.

"Plagiarism," she pronounces, and melts into Myka's embrace.

Myka laughs softly. She buries her face in the crook of Helena's neck and breathes in the clean sweet smell of home.

* * *

_This is the last chapter, so please let me know what you think! _


End file.
